WASHINGTON, DC - JANUARY 25: An activist holds a #MeToo sign during a news conference on a Title IX lawsuit outside the Department of Education January 25, 2018 in Washington, DC. Anti-sexual harassment groups held a news conference to announce a "landmark lawsuit against the Trump Administration over Title IX" and the "unconstitutional Title IX policy harming student survivors of sexual violence and harassment."(Photo: Alex Wong, Getty Images)

The Supreme Court justice, the senator, the Marine

Since that October night, I’ve watched the news closely. Famous men have been accused and exposed. Non-famous men have begun to be held accountable for their actions. The #MeToo movement inspired me and my friends to have conversations, to share stories. A few of my female coworkers and I wanted to help other women share their stories. For months we traveled the state of Wisconsin, talking to women willing to share their stories. Those women offered words of encouragement and solidarity to others who have suffered from sexual assault or harassment.

And slowly, I’ve let myself come to terms that I am one of those others in need of support and solidarity.

It happened when I was 19. I was a college freshman, a new member of a sorority.

From what I heard in the years following the assault, I was a target. I was young and new to the sorority and easy to strike up a conversation with. That put the bull’s eye on my back.

He made my acquaintance. He asked about my boyfriend, someone I had been dating for a few months at that point. We were at a party, surrounded by people. He asked if my friends and I wanted a drink. We all said yes.

I don’t remember what happened after that point, until I was hastily pulling on my shoes as he left the room to get water. I was scared.

What happened? How many hours had passed? Why couldn’t I remember anything?

I heard him padding back to the room, bare feet hitting the linoleum floor of the hallway. My stomach turned and I felt like I was going to be sick. I ran faster than I ever had before, slipping down a dark back stairway and out into the early evening air.

When I made it inside my room, I sank down a wall to the floor and pulled my knees to my chest. I began to cry. My tired body shook with sobs in the darkness of the room. The rough carpet left marks on my body.

After what felt like hours, maybe days, I pulled myself up. I asked myself if I should tell someone. No, I thought, they’ll call you a slut. They’ll think you’re lying. No one likes a liar.

I carefully picked out new clothes, and took a shower. I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling.

I didn’t tell anyone for days. Finally, I told an older friend, who encouraged me to tell other members of the sorority. They took me to the hospital, but it was far too late to use a rape kit. No one had told me there was a time limit. It was too late to test my blood for any lingering signs of the drugs the nurses suspected had been slipped into my drink.

There was nothing left to do.

I didn’t want to press charges.

I didn’t want to think about it.

I was humiliated. I found myself lying awake in bed at night, looking up at the ceiling and wondering when the feelings of shame, guilt and fear would pass.

It wasn’t until two years later that I told my closest friends. They cried with me and offered words of support. It helped, but only in that moment. I kept carrying the secret of what had happened, a silent weight in my life that I was afraid to let people know existed. Sometimes overwhelming emotions would surface. For the most part, I tried to forget.

It took years more to begin to come to terms with what happened to me that night. It wasn't until I pressed the "post" button on Facebook in October that I began to forgive myself.

That’s the beauty of the #MeToo movement. Yes, it’s holding men responsible for their actions, but it’s also connecting women with similar stories. It’s telling us that there are other people out there who feel the same thing — that we are not alone, and we don’t have to stay silent anymore. There are ways to get help, to heal, to take action and to add our voices to the choir so that our children aren’t dealing with the same problem years from now.